


Do Not Look Back

by ImmerSie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, but a family can help mend a broken man even if only a little, his bond with yasha simply beckons more confidence, his friendship with toya helps gain his voice, molly is scared and dirty and mute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-04-23 22:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImmerSie/pseuds/ImmerSie
Summary: "Seize your own destiny by pursuing your passions. Let the shadows protect you from the burning light of fanatical good and the absolute darkness of evil. Walk unbridled and untethered, finding and forging new memories and experiences."Or, how Molly's grown from the shaking man covered in dirt to the man he is today.





	1. Brevity of a Leader

**Author's Note:**

> After the newest episode of Critical Role, I just HAD to write about my favorite character, Mollymauk. It was originally just going to be a one shot but now it's a slow ascend into what Molly is today. I'm drawing from what we know and how the timelimes work between the carnival being involved and Yasha arriving there as well. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy !

It begins after the end.

Traces of memories to burrow into a hazy mind, like sifting through photos tainted by a fire with singed edges and darkened faces.

A smile between two figures.

A spell book viewed in the shadows of Rexxentrum. A caster to walk alongside a figure of lavender and crimson and darkness. Hands risen to the sky as a voice speaks words to starving souls and bright eyes. A leader with followers so devoted that he could have been mistaken for the sun itself. 

There was a ritual to cast.

And then... it is a blur.

It is murmured words, spat in a language lost to ones beyond the ritual. It is bright magic that beckons a force greater than expected. It is a moon, blood red and ripe for the spells spoken aloud. It is fascinations whispered to a group and walking into the abyss with many intentions in mind.

He would be back, he said.

He lied.

Something’s gone wrong.

“Where is Nonagon?” The voices whisper, frantic and lost. “He should have been back by now. It was not supposed to be this long.”

He no longer breathes. He has gone cold and far too much time has passed.

The figures are overtaken by fear and grief and their hearts weigh heavy as they gather shovels and dig. They are delicate in resting their leader within its confines, within the shallow grave they dug. They whisper hopes that he has found what he wanted, they wish he would return but he would not.

They leave him behind.

And there is only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short, but then again, so are the known memories of Lucien/Nonagon. The real story begins next chapter~!


	2. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was in a grave, he now knew this. Yet he didn’t know why he was here nor why anyone thought it fine to place him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slapping in two chapters in one day and then I'll probably figure out a small update schedule for this.

Darkness.

That is the first thing that he could note.

It's dark and gives no explanation to a confused mindset that's woken from a dreamless sleep. 

The second thing he notes is the weight of the earth pressing upon his chest. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to move, and that combined with the darkness brewed more panic than he had expected. It filled his mouth, stung his eyes, and as he further came to in this unfamiliar place, it was the frantic trepidation that stirred true movement.

A hand would squirm and then cut through the earth to dig.

He was in a grave, he now knewthis. Yet he didn’t know why he was here nor why anyone thought it fine to place him here.

He only knew to dig and so he did. He moved up, clawing with fear lacing his veins, and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He didn’t relent and continued to claw through the dirt until he could see it: the faint traces of light beyond the dirt. He kicked and dug until a hand would burst free and then another to find purchase within the surface.

The tiefling would pull himself from the grave in the dead of the night, coughing and gasping and quivering. He spat the dirt in his mouth to the side, clearing his raw throat of the offending substance. A wrist would lift to wipe the corners of his eyes, to try and clear his sights just a little more.

He was still waist deep in a grave and unsure of what the hell could have even led to a scenario.

Crimson hues lift to the sky and the third thing he witnesses – and finds far more comfort within – is the sight of the moon in the sky. It is a soft light that kisses his cheeks and whispers a reassurance that he is still alive. Though the clouds do threaten to hide its sight from him, he can at least take refuge in it for the time he has.

He’s still held by fear and a cough still wrangles itself from his throat here and there. His body still shakes as the adrenaline begins to leave him and he uses his last bit of strength to pull the rest of him from the dirt.

But he’s _alive_.

He finds himself thankful that it was a shallow grave that he was placed in. Perhaps it really would have been his home if it had been dug any deeper.

He sways as he rises to his feet and every step is a struggle, a stumble that threatens to send him falling to the ground. But there is a stubborn refusal to stay here and so he pushes on, one foot after the other until he leaves the field.

His memories are a tad blank. He didn’t know who he was or what past he led, but he thankfully kept some useful memories. Like the knowledge of what race he was or the fact that he knew how to walk and eat. He tried to dig further into his head and see what more lay beyond the wall that he continues to collide with.

He doesn’t find a memory.

He finds a feeling.

“Empty…” He murmurs, voice raspy and lost to the distant rumble of thunder.

That is all he knows as he moves toward the trees. This hollow sensation beyond the rush of emotions that struck him from the moment he opened his eyes. It only further disconnects him from his body as he entered the forest, dark with no moonlight to guide his path.  

 

* * *

 

There are occasions where he pauses.

Where he stops to rest beneath a tree. Then he’s up moving again, clutching the sodden dark coat to his body as if it would provide some promise of warmth.

It is a repetitive thing: he stops and continues when his legs feel ready to go on.

Somewhere along the movement and faint grasps at nonexistent memories, he trips over a tree root. His hands throw themselves out as he falls down a small decline of sorts. He thinks he knocked his head a little too hard against another root during the fall, his vision swims for a moment.  

He doesn’t move when he reaches the bottom, only stares off as the rain falls and dry dirt becomes mud.

It’s pointless to continue if he doesn’t even know where he’s going. It’s only asking to grow more lost in this godforsaken place.

That’s when he sees it.

It’s faint at first, like the moonlight through the gaps in the dirt. Then it began to grow brighter; lanterns to light their pathway and voices to grumble and speak in the eve. It’s people. It’s a presence that isn’t just a tiefling and the trees.

It’s that distant company that sparks a bit of hope in his tired soul and has him rising to his feet once more to change directions and head to the light.

Maybe it isn’t as pointless as he thought.


	3. An Offered Palm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dim rainfall and approaching storm, the beginning of a tiefling's future and a new path would be laid out with gentle care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a while! I'm so sorry for taking so long to post another chapter. So much has happened in life and then with the latest events of Critical Role, it's been tough to look at this story. I still miss him a bunch, but hey, Mollymauk's tale should still be told and I'm still fond of this story. It's a bit short because I'm trying to regain the hang of things, so sorry in advance!

It’s late.

The eve is hardly friendly as the rain falls. There is an occasional rumble of thunder, too distant to dote upon but still worthy of a glance over a shoulder or a murmur of how the length of the night will bring a heavy storm.

Beyond the sound of rain, there is but the step of horses over the road and the sounds of the traveling. A clang of metal here, a rumple of cloth, a creak of wood would be just some of the noise.

A half elven man leads the caravan of colors and wonder, donning a coat to protect him somewhat from the elements. He narrows his gaze to the road ahead, content in the lantern providing a lit enough path for him to go along. They would stop soon enough, somewhere the mud couldn’t trouble them and the storm wouldn’t stir too much of a commotion from the group. He sighs as the wind picked up slightly, earning a wobble of the lantern and the sharp whip of cloth from the farthest cart.

A hum leaves him, nonsensical with a soft murmur or two to dress the tune.

He is so settled on the dull ease of their pace that he nearly missed the man standing by the road, crimson hues eyeing him.

He stopped immediately, tugging on the reins with a hissed curse. The horses have him stop almost right by the lavender tiefling, who takes a wary step back. The half elf seemed as confused as he was mildly intrigued, hopping from the seat and slowly approaching with a tilt of the head.

“Hello there… What are you doing in the woods at this time of night?” He says, voice as friendly and lax as it was careful. “There are no homes around here for miles, you know? Are you uh... are you lost?”

He can only gain a blank stare, which served to worry him more as he tried to garner any reply.

“What is your name? Do you have a name?” He said, looking him over before he pressed a hand to his own chest. “My name is Gustav.”

The stare seems to wander elsewhere, to the shadows that poke from the other carts behind. But then it wandered back to Gustav, in all his curiosity. There is no reply, only an eerie silence to fill the air beyond the pitter patter of rain upon dirt. He doesn’t speak still.

Gustav’s brows furrowed as he took a step back and was greeted with a lost look and haunted eyes. As if this man has seen something that one could only hope to inquire about. A sight as if this quivering individual only just strode away from hell itself. His lips pursed, gaze flitting over his shoulder when he caught queries of why he stopped from the others inhabiting the carts.

The storm was getting closer and they could not stay out here for long.

Yet Gustav didn’t have the heart to leave this soul out here with the elements. So, he slaps on his best smile and takes a step closer with an offered hand to the tiefling.

“Hey, how about… how about you come with us? You look like you could use some company, a place to stay, and—" A glance to the wardrobe that clung to him, sopping and surely uncomfortable. “and dry clothes, as well. You can tell me about yourself then, okay?”

There is no nod, no affirmation, or anything of the sort. He is only given that same stare, as unfaltering as before. A grimace graced his features, a mutter towards wondering what in the hell could have happened to him.

Yet despite it all, the half elf crosses the minimal space between them in little time — such benefit to long legs, it seems. An arm would swing around this stranger, amiable regards beginning to grace his features as he steered the lavender man to cart he drove. Moving back the flap and scanning it to see just how much space he had, he looked over and gave an apologetic smile.

“It’ll be a bit of a tight fit, I’m sorry. But I think putting you with the others would overwhelm you. So, with me you will stay.” He said. “Come along now.”  
  
It was a bit hard to guide him by words alone, so he had to tug him into the cart and settle him in the corner. Removing his coat and placing it over the tiefling — who only now began to shiver from the chill — he sighed and exited to walk around, retaking his seat.

He would have to explain this latest addition to their group later, but that was far better than leaving a man to die.

“Oh Moonweaver… what have you given me this time?”

 

 


End file.
